


His eyes are green like emeralds

by LakeWitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Femslash, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, Feel-good, First Kiss, Fluff, Ghosts, Hair, Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley Friendship, Harry Potter's canonical obsession with Draco Malfoy's hair, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Limericks, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Love Poems, M/M, Matchmaking, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, SO MUCH FLUFF, Second Kiss, Sonnets, passing notes, pov switching, though some bits are sad and there’s a chance you may cry because I nearly did when I wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 23:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LakeWitch/pseuds/LakeWitch
Summary: During his 8th year at Hogwarts, Harry Potter starts receiving poems suspiciously like his valentine from 2nd year.He and Ginny had broken up, so, who was sending them?Featuring: a matchmaking (lesbian) (Hufflepuff) ghost, several embarrassing and soppy limericks, one truly awful sonnet, and, two kisses.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: I think the only possible warning I'd have is for swearing?
> 
> Please don't mind the 1st person present tense in the beginning, it doesn't last. We get into good old 3rd person past soon enough ❤️

**Green. **

**Where am I? **

**This is new.**

~~

**Images are clearer. **

**But I am spread so thin. **

**I think I see shadows. **

****

~~

**The dream is coming in to focus.**

**I see … smudges. **

**Shapes. **

**They might be beds. **

**Like from my school days. **

**But these ones are different, somehow. **

**Different. **

  
**Why? **

  
**Oh. **

**Because my bed was yellow. **

**These are green.**

~~

**Boys. **

**I’ve never been over-fond of boys. **

**There are boys here, most certainly. **

**They come in and out, in and out. **

**I can just make out their plain short-cropped hair, their boring long pants, despite being a bit blurry around the edges. **

**I remember … I remember twisting a girl’s curls through my fingers. **

**I remember … pleated skirts …**

~~

**There is a boy. **

**In his bed, with the curtains drawn around him. **

**This one is kind of pretty, prettier than the others. **

**He has long white hair spilling over his shoulders. Sad grey eyes. **

**Why is he so sad?**

~~

While sat cross-legged on his bed, Draco doodled in his notebook. Spirals and stars littered the parchment, as he sighed. Then, he flipped the page over to a blank one, and began to write. 

_His eyes are green like emeralds. _

_With raven hair at his temples. _

_He’s really quite fit, I’d snog him a bit. _

_A man that gives me trembles_

He snorted a laugh, looking down at what he wrote. 

Draco then tore off the parchment, crushing it into a ball in his hand and tossing it across the room. 

“Pathetic,” he murmured, and took out his wand, casting an _Incendio_ at the note, before collapsing onto his back. 

He stared up at the canopy above him, and sighed. 

He hadn’t seen the balled-up parchment jerk away at the last moment, before the _Incendio_ could hit.

~~

**A love poem. **

**That is what he wrote—A love poem. **

**To another boy. **

**Someone with green eyes and black hair. **

**I think I knew someone like that once. **

**But I don’t remember ...**

~~

Draco slumped onto his bed. His dormmates were down in the common room, and he felt relief. Because he was alone. No Pansy there to nag him, nor Blaise to lecture him, nor Theo to flirt with him. Blissfully alone.

He pulled out his notebook and a quill from his bedside table, opening the book up to a blank page. He stared at it for a while, his eyes unfocussed. Then, he began to write. 

__

_On his forehead a lightning bolt. _

__

_At times he’s a great dolt. _

__

_But he is kind; to not know is to be blind. _

__

_Seeing him gives my heart a jolt._

Draco laughed, rubbing his forehead absentmindedly. “So idiotic,” he said to the empty room. 

Again, he tore off the page, crumpled it, and launched it across the room. 

A wispy white form flickered into his view. 

“What—” he started, with heartrate sped up. What was that? 

It disappeared. 

“Hello?” he called to the space it vacated. 

The crumpled parchment was gone.

~~

**I think he saw me. **

**No one has seen me before, in this dream world. **

**What does that mean for me? **

**And he wrote another love note. **

**With another clue. **

**A lightning bolt? **

**Something about that seems so familiar, like the answer is just beyond a curtain, if only I could draw it aside.**

~~

“I thought I’d seen a ghost in here the other day, have either of you—?” Draco asked.

“Mm?” Blaise uttered, not bothering to look up from his book. “A ghost? No, I can’t say I have.” 

“Me neither,” answered Theo, shooting Draco an inquisitive look. “But if you’re scared, you can sleep in my bed. I’ll keep you safe.” He winked. 

Draco rolled his eyes, not dignifying that with a response, and pulled out his notebook and quill. He then shut the curtains around him, and opened up to a fresh page. 

It was nostalgic, pure and simple. That was all his silly poems were. 

Thinking about Harry Potter was an escape. A distraction from his barely tolerable, mundane existence. Post-war Hogwarts hadn’t been easy for a former Death Eater. Draco knew, full-well, that he’d been a fool to follow his father’s teachings so blindly, never questioning them, and now he had to live with all the mistakes he’d made—the mess he’d made of his life. 

And Potter was a fantasy for him, a fantasy that only now he allowed himself to indulge in. That was all it was. 

He picked up his quill, and wrote. 

__

_Harry Potter has my heart. _

__

_His pain would be my boggart. _

__

_I want him, I’d trade a limb. _

__

_His arse is a work of art._

Draco snorted. “This is the worst one yet,” he whispered, feeling a heat rise in his cheeks. Sod it all, he’d made himself blush. Pathetic. 

He tossed his notebook away to the foot of his bed, and buried his face in his hands. 

A gentle ripping noise startled him. He looked, and, the page of his poem was slowly being ripped out of his notebook. 

“Uh—” he began, scrambling to the foot of his bed to get a closer look, and then he searched around the room for a spellcaster. “Is someone there?” 

A wispy white hand flickered into view on the page. 

Draco sucked in a breath. “The ghost I saw earlier.” It had to be a young ghost, not fully formed yet. That meant—that meant they likely died in the war. 

The hand paused, flickering in and out. 

“You … like my poems?” he asked. 

The hand became clearer, more solid looking. “_Yessss._” It wasn’t quite a voice, more like the sound of wind rustling through tree leaves. 

“Who are you? What’s your name?” 

No response. The hand continued to tear the paper, slowly. 

“Were you a student here?” Draco asked breathily. He'd known new ghosts were possible—_probable_, even. But to see one for himself was no easier. 

He’d done this. His side. Children caught up in a war—their lives snuffed out far too soon. 

No response. The hand finished tearing the page, and was now folding it up slowly … carefully, as Draco watched on. 

He licked his lips and tried again. “I’m Draco. What’s your name?” 

Nothing. Note and hand disappeared. 

“Shit,” he cursed. Where had the stupid poem gone?

~~

**He calls me a ghost. **

**Is that what I am? **

**Did I die? **

**Harry Potter. **

**Yes. I remember now. **

**Harry Potter is a hero. **

**And this man loves him. **

**Draco. **

**Harry Potter must be told. **

**Love is too important, it has to be shared.**

~~

A crumpled-up piece of parchment moved through the halls of Hogwarts at a snail's pace. The ghost was tired—feeling spread thin, feeling wispy. Moving physical objects was difficult work, but she persevered. After all, she had time.

The paper climbed staircases, hugging the edges. A student kicked it, sending it flying. Thankfully in the correct direction. 

She tried to thank the boy who kicked it, but nothing came out of her mouth. 

A translucent, white-tinted man with odd clothing appeared in her path. 

**Ghost**, her memory provided. 

“Well hello there!” he called, in a boisterous voice. 

She couldn’t answer. She was much too tired. 

“Looks like you could use some assistance!” 

**Yes**, she tried to answer, but nothing came out. 

“I haven’t practiced moving objects myself in many, many years. I always tend to find it’s best to leave things where they lay, and I do find focusing my energy on speaking to be much more fun.” He did a little twirl in the air. “But this must be an urgent quest you’ve undertaken, or you wouldn’t have gotten this far. Let’s see, let’s see—oh! Miss Hermione Granger!” 

“Ah, er, hello Sir Nicholas, how are you?” 

Someone passed near the ghost, with big bushy hair, and paused near her new friend. 

“Fine, fine, thank you. Now, are you off to Gryffindor Tower?” 

“I am.” 

**Oh.** The girl’s foot was close to the paper. **This is my chance.**

The ghost put all of her might into raising the ball of paper, to the student’s bag. 

It worked, but it’d been too much effort, and she flickered out—it was like falling asleep. 

She awoke some time later, hazy and groggy. 

Something was floating around in circles in front of her. Her ghost friend, the one in the funny clothing. 

He spun to face her. “Ah! You’re awake! That was tricky business, wasn’t it? Well I watched after your quest for you, but I’m afraid your object fell out of Miss Hermione Granger’s satchel. I tried to tell her—but just then Peeves started wreaking havoc on the suits of armour.” The ghost made _tsk_ sounds. ”Well, never mind that. I’ll show you to the spot, if you’re able?” 

**Yes. I am able**. 

She floated after him, and found the crumpled paper, just down the corridor from the Gryffindor entrance. 

She began pushing it. 

“Well! I say, good luck! I must be off!” 

**Thank you,** the ghost thought, as she nudged the paper along. **Almost there, now**. 

At last, after days and days of hard work, she’d reached a portrait of a large lady. 

The lady eyed her appraisingly. “You are a new one. On an important errand, are you? Well, come on in.” The portrait swung open, to reveal a mostly maroon-coloured room. 

The crumpled parchment continued its slow journey.

~~

Harry Potter threw his bag on his bed, and flopped down onto his back. He was exhausted. Something pressed into his shoulder blade, so he reached an arm around himself and pulled whatever it was out to take a look.

Garbage. Who was tossing their trash on his bed? 

He sighed, and worked to flattened it out against his stomach. Maybe there was a name so he could tell them to just _Evanesco_ their discarded notes next time. Perhaps it’d been Neville. 

He lifted it in the air above himself to read it. 

It had four written lines, with no name in the corner. He didn’t recognize the hand-writing. 

__

_His eyes are green like emeralds. _

__

_With raven hair at his temples. _

__

_He’s really quite fit, I’d snog him a bit. _

__

_A man that gives me trembles_

He shot up into a sitting position, and read it over again, hands gripping the page tight. 

Oh fuck. Had Ginny written him another ridiculous poem, just like that sodding valentine in his second year? Shit. Now he was going to have to have another awkward conversation with her. 

They’d broken up, he thought she’d understood that. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t—He didn’t _feel_ that way anymore. He didn’t know if he’d ever get those feelings back. 

She’s a wonderful person, of course. She’s beautiful, sharp-witted, tough as nails … But … But apparently that wasn’t enough for him. Harry sighed, and rubbed at his forehead. Shit. He wished he could return her feelings. 

Fucking hell. Did they really have to go through the talk? _Again_? 

He groaned and pulled himself up off the bed. Well. He’d better get this over with, then.

~~

Harry found Ginny quietly chatting with Luna at a table in the library; small conspiratorial smiles featured on both of their lips, like they were sharing a secret.

“Hey,” he said gently as he approached. “Ginny. Can I talk to you a moment?” 

Ginny and Luna exchanged a look; Ginny’s expression was dry, Luna’s: amused. 

“Alright, Harry,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “What’s up?” 

“Good luck, Harry,” Luna said, before she stood up and floated over to the stacks, with the thick skirt of her dress bobbing as she walked. 

Harry sat in the chair beside Ginny, and pulled the wrinkled note out of his pocket, laying it on the table. “Did you send me this? Because, I thought we understood—” 

“No,” Ginny interrupted, frowning at the paper. “I didn’t write this.” 

“But … it’s just like your valentine from second year. Same format. Same content practically.” 

Ginny exhaled, and shifted her sharp brown eyes from the note to Harry’s own. “I didn’t send you a valentine, Harry. That wasn’t me.” 

Harry lent back in his chair, and stared at her. It couldn’t be. That _had_ to have been Ginny. Ginny and no one else. He searched her face, and she looked serious enough. “Are you sure?” 

The edge of her lip quirked up, along with an eyebrow. “One hundred percent, Harry. I have no reason to lie to you. Someone else sent you that valentine song six years ago.” 

He brought a hand up to his forehead. Impossible. He’d been sure it was from Ginny. 

If not Ginny, _who_? 

Well. That certainly threw him for a loop. 

“Someone’s got a thing for you now, huh? Well, congratulations,” she said with a teasing smile. “They’re quite a … wordsmith.” She snickered into her hand. 

His gaze drifted back to the note. 

“Didn’t that last one have something to do with a pickled toad?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Gross. As if I’d ever write something like that. I’m a bit offended you’d thought it was me.” 

Harry looked back up at her, a bit dumbfounded.

~~

When Harry returned to his dorm room, and pulled out the wrinkled parchment, he sat on his bed and gazed at it for a while.

The edge of his mouth quirked up. 

He was … smiling. 

The note-writer thought he was fit, wanted to snog a bit? And Harry gave them ‘trembles’? 

_Cute._

Harry thought the poem was quite cute, he realised. Usually weird notes from strangers made him feel uncomfortable, but this one … felt different. Harry was very, very confused, sure, but … the poem was … sweet. 

He stared at the hand-writing. It was in cursive—very loopy. He couldn’t tell if it were more masculine or feminine. Though, judging gender based on writing wasn’t exactly a reliable science anyhow. Luna’s writing was elegant and round, riddled with doodles of creatures resembling things like panda bears and tree sprites. Ginny’s, on the other hand, was barely legible scratches, not so different from Harry’s, come to think of it. So he’d been a bit rash to accuse her of writing it in the first place—though he’d never had a reason to doubt she’d sent him the first one, until now. 

When Harry closed his eyes and let himself imagine the writer who belonged to this particular hand-writing, he thought of a man with long, thin fingers—a nice palm-size to finger-length ratio. Someone wearing a thick maroon cardigan, in a study lined with tall bookshelves with a grand piano in a corner, and a window behind him that looked out onto dense snowy forest. 

Harry opened his eyes. That had been a stupid thing to imagine—a posh, well-read man like that wouldn’t write ‘trembles’ in a love poem. He sighed and looked back down at the page. 

It was written with a good quality quill. Good quality parchment too, actually—thick and creamy paper. The page had been torn on one side—came out of a notebook, then? 

Well. It was nice, anyhow. He wondered if he’d receive another. 

He might even … hope he would.

~~

Sure enough, a week later, another crumpled note found its way into Harry’s bed.

He felt a funny fluttering in his chest, as he worked to smooth it out and read. 

__

_On his forehead a lightning bolt. _

__

_At times he’s a great dolt. _

__

_But he is kind; to not know is to be blind. _

__

_Seeing him gives my heart a jolt._

Harry sucked in a breath. 

This one included an insult, along with its confusing, sweet compliments. 

Sure, granted, he _was_ a bit of an idiot sometimes. 

Well, whoever it was had gotten into his dorm room, so asking around Gryffindor was a first step. 

He folded the paper up carefully, put it in his pocket, and went to find Hermione.

~~

Days passed and he was no closer to finding the sender. And, why would they send it all balled up like that? An odd way to send notes to someone, really. Usually in an envelope attached to an owl’s leg was the norm. So, this person was not quite normal, then.

But … _who_? It was driving Harry half-mad. 

He’d elicited Hermione’s assistance, and they’d asked around Gryffindor, but in the end they hadn’t turned up anything. Now, they sat on his bed, staring at the two notes, going over them, again. 

“I agree that they’re an awful lot like your old valentine. I’d always figured Ginny had sent that too,” Hermione commented, tapping her chin. “Hmm. Do you remember its exact words?” 

Fred and George had certainly sung it enough to cement the words in Harry’s mind. He sighed, and recited: “His eyes are as green as fresh pickled toad.” 

He rolled said eyes, and Hermione giggled into her hand. 

“His hair is as dark as a blackboard. I wish he were mine, he’s really divine.” 

Hermione grinned at him, amused. 

“The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.” 

Her smile faded, and her eyes got that glassy look she always got when she was on to something. “The Dark Lord,” she echoed. 

“Yeah, well. It rhymes with blackboard, doesn’t it?” 

“Hmm. It does, yes, but … only certain people refer to Voldemort as ‘Dark Lord’, don’t they? Death Eaters, certain Slytherins, people on _that_ side.” 

“You can’t possibly think …" 

“I’m not sure. But it may be a clue.” 

Harry stared at her. “You seriously think a _Death Eater_ is sending me these notes?” The very idea was preposterous. 

Hermione sighed, lifting her shoulders in a sharp shrug. “I don’t know, Harry.”

~~

**I’m getting clearer. **

**I’m getting stronger. **

**I think I’m taking shape. **

**Draco. He is still sad. **

**He is alone. **

**Why hasn’t Harry come to see him? **

**I don’t see any return notes.**

~~

Draco sat cross-legged on his bed, doodling little birds in his notebook, when he got the impression he was being watched. He looked up, but the dorm room was still empty.

“Are you there?” he whispered. 

In response, the flickering figure of a girl appeared, cross-legged at the end of his bed. Her head was tilted, like she was trying to figure him out. 

He startled. 

Her eyes widened in response. 

Draco didn’t know her. But she’d clearly been a student, she was still wearing her uniform. Fourth or fifth year, he’d guess, with long hair pulled up in a knot atop her head. 

“Hello,” he said. 

She nodded, and pointed to the notebook. 

“Yes.” He shrugged. “I’m drawing birds.” 

She shook her head vigorously, and opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. 

“What’s the matter?” 

She pointed again. He didn’t understand, all he could do was stare back. 

“_Poem_” she uttered, like the sound of wind. 

Draco blinked at her, as comprehension dawned on him. “You want me to … write a poem?” 

She nodded curtly. 

“Right. Ah, a poem for you?” 

She shook her head, pointing at the notebook again. 

He swallowed, thinking he knew what she was getting at. “Er, a poem about …" He could hardly bring himself to say it. That blasted name—the bane of his existence, the man … “A poem about … Harry Potter?” He nearly whispered the name. 

The ghost smiled wistfully, and nodded. 

“Er, why?” 

She kept smiling, pointing at the notebook. 

So—slowly—Draco turned the page. Glancing from the ghost, and then down at the blank parchment. Well. This was rather odd, wasn’t it? 

He didn’t know what to write. 

Draco looked up at the ghost, and she smiled back patiently. 

Sighing, Draco figured he should oblige her anyhow. It was probably his fault she was dead anyway, he thought with a pang to his chest. If she wanted to read his stupid poems, the least he could do was let her. 

He wrote the first thing that came to mind: 

__

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._

Draco snorted, a flimsy little sonnet, then. What was it—ABAB CDCD EFEF GG? Merlin, this was going to be awful. 

He looked at the ghost—finding her there, leaning forward, already smiling at his words. 

_I love the shape of your hands, the brightness in your eyes._  
_Somehow, I know, I could look at you for days._  
_And so, how I lust after you is no surprise. _

_But I’m writing to you about love, not lust._  
_For you are good and noble and brave,_  
_And mine is a love that will never rust._  
_I could drown in it like a tidal wave. _

_You are so much more than the sum of my words._  
_You are the greatest man I’ll ever know._  
_To me, your voice is sweeter than songbirds,_  
_And you set my heart aglow. _

_I want only for you the best,_  
_To be forever blessed._

“Oh Salazar,” he groaned, and covered his eyes. It was so terrible. 

He uncovered his face, and checked to see if the ghost was still there. She was. Smiling at him, pointing at the page. 

Draco sighed. “I suppose you want to collect this one too? Well, alright. But you’re wasting your time, because these are all seriously awful. If you like poetry, you should go to the library and check out Keats or something.” 

She blinked her ghostly eyes back at him, smiling. 

He bit his lip, furrowed his brow, and tore off the page, folding it up carefully and handing it to her. 

She reached out to grab it, and at the moment the paper would’ve touched her hand (had she been alive), she and the noted disappeared. 

“Right,” Draco said, to the empty room.

~~

Harry’s next note was so nicely folded, unlike the last ones, that he hadn’t noticed it straight away.

He asked Hermione over with his Patronus, before opening it up. 

__

_Harry Potter has my heart. _

__

_His pain would be my boggart. _

__

_I want him, I’d trade a limb. _

_His arse is a work of art._

Harry felt himself blush, just as Hermione came racing through the door out of breath. 

“Another one?” 

Harry nodded, not quite meeting her eyes as he handed it over. 

Hermione’s eyes raked over the page hungrily, then, she giggled. “_Oh_. Wow. That’s cute.” 

Harry groaned. “Cute?” 

“Yeah, I especially like the part about your arse.” 

“Jesus, Hermione …" 

She snorted. “Well. I’m not sure this gives us any more clues, now does it?” 

“No …” 

She sat down heavily beside him on the bed and patted his knee. “We’ll figure it out, sooner or later.” 

“Will we?” It certainly felt impossible—no one seemed to recognise the hand-writing, or know anything about the sender. 

Hermione shot him a warm smile. “I think so. Say … since we’re sure it isn’t someone in Gryffindor, maybe we should ask the Fat Lady if she knows anything? The notes have to be getting in somehow, and we know it isn’t by owl.” 

“Um, okay. Worth a shot, I guess,” he answered, skeptical. 

They walked out, past their fellow Gryffindors playing Exploding Snap, reading, studying, or just talking in the common room, and climbed out. 

The Fat Lady was pretending to be fast asleep, making funny snoring sounds. 

“Um, excuse me,” Harry said. 

The Fat Lady cracked an eye open then closed it, resuming her noises. 

They didn’t have time for this. Harry cleared his throat, and said louder, “Excuse me!” 

She frowned, opening her eyes—finally—to looked them both up and down appraisingly. “Come to chat, have we? I was _trying to have a nap_.” 

“Er, yes. Sorry. You see—” Harry began. 

“We were wondering if you knew of someone bringing notes in. For Harry,” Hermione interjected, straight to the point. 

The Fat Lady’s sharp gaze fell on Harry. “Getting notes, young man?” 

“Um. Yeah. Love notes.” He blushed and winced immediately. It was still a bit embarrassing to say out loud. 

The Fat Lady’s face broke out into a devilish grin. “Well, well. How lovely. No one ever sends me notes anymore.” 

Did anyone ever? After all, she’s a portrait … Well, Harry decided to let that one slide. “Yes, well, have you seen someone come in with a note for me?” 

“A note for you? I may have.” 

“Who was it?” 

“Let me see, let me see. Ah yes, that’s right.” The Fat Lady made a show out of looking around her portrait, as if the answers could possibly be there. 

Harry was shifting his weight from foot to foot, impatiently. He was doing a good job of resisting shouting, he thought. 

“Who was it?” asked Hermione this time, looking serious and determined. 

“Ah yes, ah yes. It was a young girl, no more than fifteen.” 

Harry didn’t know why that set a pit in his stomach. Was he … disappointed? Because a young girl just meant another of his young fans, someone who didn’t know him—the real him. When, when … maybe, if he were being honest with himself, he may have hoped the notes were from someone—special? Is that the right word here? Special, someone he _knew_, someone he might even like _back_. 

“She’s a Hufflepuff. Sweet little thing. It’s quite unfortunate what happened to her.” 

That brought Harry out of his thoughts. “I’m sorry, what happened to her?” 

“Oh she _died_. The poor dear.” 

“A ghost?” Hermione asked, her face twisting up in confusion. “A ghost is bringing Harry love notes? Well that just doesn’t make sense. Ghosts can’t write.” 

The Fat Lady tilted her head up a sniffed. “Well I don’t know about that. I’m just telling you what I _do_ know. Is that not _enough_?” 

Harry blinked at her. “Er, yes. Thank you so much. That was very helpful.” 

They headed back inside to process this new information, settling in on Harry’s bed. 

“Ghosts can’t write letters, Harry …" Hermione repeated. “Sometimes they can move physical objects, but its erratic at best. Simple objects, like … shifting a mug a bit. Holding a quill up to a piece of parchment, well—that's much too sophisticated.” 

“Okay, so, the Fat Lady was wrong?” Harry asked, staring at the clasped hands on his lap. 

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know, Harry. How could she be wrong? Maybe she _was_ telling the truth. Maybe a ghost brought the notes _in_, which, in itself would take a great deal of effort for a ghost. But a living person had to have written it. Maybe—” 

“Yeah?” He perked up, hopeful. 

“Maybe she wrote them when she was alive, and decided you needed to know her feelings?” 

Harry frowned, deflating. She was probably right. It’d be logical, after all. And logic tends to win out in these cases. He didn’t have some fairytale ending in store—someone who knew him, and loved him anyway. Despite his brashness, stupidity, and moodiness. To love him despite his fame, not because of it. 

No, it was just another girl. Another person who thought he was something that he wasn’t—who projected all their impossible, unrealistic hopes and desires onto him. 

It’d been foolish to allow himself to get swept up in it. To yearn for something … and feel like he might actually get it … 

“You’re probably right, Hermione.” 

She exhaled hard. “Well. The next step is to talk to this ghost.” 

“Why bother?” 

Hermione shot him a questioning glance, as if the answer were so obvious, he needn’t have asked. “So that we discover the truth, Harry. So that we—and perhaps she—get closure on this.” 

Harry wanted to snap back, saying that there wasn’t really a ‘we’ here, they were Harry’s sodding letters, and couldn’t young girls just leave him alone? Why would _they_ need closure with somebody they never even _knew_? But that wasn’t fair. Hermione had been helping him, as she always did, never saying no—always there. She was always, always dependable. And the ghost couldn’t be blamed. She had _died_—Oh God, had he really just been annoyed at a ghost for sending him lovely poems? Just because she was too young, and he didn’t know her at all? How self-absorbed could he get? 

Harry attempted a smile. “Okay. Yeah, we should find her and talk to her.” 

Hermione broke out into a grin. “Yes, we’ll start tomorrow. I’ll find out who died in Hufflepuff.” Her grin fell, as she realised what she was saying. 

He patted her knee. “This is pretty strange, isn’t it? Us trying to figure out who’s the ghost sending me love notes?” 

Hermione smiled. “It’s a nice change of pace, really. Compared to our other adventures in the last years.” 

Harry huffed a laugh. “That’s for sure. I only wish Ron were here too.” 

Hermione smiled sadly. “Me too. But he needed to help George with the shop …” She sighed. “We’ll just have to write him about it.” 

“Yeah, we will.” 

“Well,” Hermione said, reaching an arm around him for a quick side-hug. “I best go and finish up my reading on Gristlegrit root.” 

“Isn’t that due next week?” 

“Yes.” She patted his cheek. “Night, Harry.” 

“G’night, Hermione. And—thanks. For everything.”

~~

The next day, in the early evening, Harry flew laps around the Quidditch pitch alone. The cool wind on his face helped him clear his head. He practiced some drills and feints, and had worked up a decent sweat before his eye caught a flash of red hair.

He turned to find Ginny sitting in the stands, alone as well. She waved at him, so he flew closer to drop down beside her. 

“Hey,” he said. “Out here by yourself?” 

She shrugged. “It’s a good place to think.” 

Harry looked out at the empty pitch. “Yeah.” He felt the same way. “What’s been on your mind, then?” 

“Oh, nothing good.” Ginny grimaced. “I think I like someone.” 

He had to laugh. “And that’s a problem, is it?” 

“It might be.” 

“Well … who is he, then?” 

She sighed. “_She_.” 

Harry’s eyebrows raised on their own accord. “Oh? I didn’t know—” 

“Yeah. I think this means I’m bi.” 

“Oh! Well, that’s great.” 

Ginny shot him a disbelieving look. “You think that’s ‘great’?” 

“Sure, I mean … she’d be a lucky girl?” 

Ginny side-eyed him, but smiled, despite herself. “It’s Luna.” 

“Oh." It wasn’t what he was expecting Ginny to say, but ... something told him the two of them, somehow, seemed to work. 

“She’s just ...” Ginny rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s hard to read? I can’t figure out if I even have a chance.” 

“Well, why not just ask her?” 

“I’d like to know, you know? I’d like a hint first, so that I know I’m not totally off, and doing something stupid, like ruining what friendship we have—” 

Harry bumped his shoulder against hers. “Hey, if anyone’s good at letting someone down easy, I’m sure it’s Luna. She’ll be your friend no matter what. I truly believe that. So, I don’t think there’s anything to lose, really.” 

Ginny smiled, looking out onto the grass. “Maybe you’re right.” 

“I’m definitely right.” 

She laughed. “So, I should just tell her how I feel, that’s what you’re saying?” 

“Yep. Nothing to lose. She’ll be your friend no matter what. That’s just Luna, you know?” 

“Well, you might have a point.” She turned to him, and looked him up and down, sizing him up. “So, what are you out here for, then?” 

He shrugged, and glanced at her. “Remember that note I showed you?” 

“Yeah.” Ginny snorted. “Did you find out who sent it?” 

“Sort of. A ghost—someone who died in the war—has been bringing them to my dorm room.” 

Ginny’s face fell. It was another reminder of the war, and it was another reminder that Fred wasn’t here—not that any of them had forgotten, even for a moment. “Ah. Who are they?” 

“A girl, someone from Hufflepuff—I don’t know her name yet. I think the Fat Lady said she was in fourth year? I can’t remember.” 

“Hmm. Strange, huh?” 

“Yeah … Hermione thought she might have written them before she died, and it was her dying wish or something to have me know how she felt.” 

“Well. That’s quite sweet.” 

“Yeah.” He looked out at the pitch. The sun was setting, and casting the grass in a warm, orange glow. “I guess I was hoping it was a living, breathing human, though.” 

A soft breeze tickled his face, and his eye caught a glint of light in his peripheral. He turned, to find Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott, and Draco Malfoy making their way onto the grass, with brooms slung over their shoulders. 

Harry sucked in a breath. It’d been the light from the setting sun reflecting off of Malfoy’s near-white long hair that had caught his eye. He was practically glowing in this light. 

“Ah, we’ve got company,” said Ginny dryly. 

Malfoy tossed his broom to the grass, and swept all of his hair over one shoulder. His nimble fingers made quick work of plaiting it, and securing it at the end with an elastic he’d had around his wrist. Effortless. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. 

Malfoy picked up his broom, and his plait swung behind him as he righted himself, and got ready to take off. 

Soon, the three figures were flying loops in the air. 

“You haven’t kicked the habit yet, huh?” 

Harry blinked rapidly, coming back into himself. Ginny’s words registered late in his mind. “What?” He turned to her, found her smirking at him. 

Ginny nodded towards the pitch. “Watching Malfoy.” 

“I—I’m not,” he protested, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just looking out, and they’re flying there, aren’t they? It’d be distracting for anybody—eyes are drawn to movement.” 

“Sure. But you weren’t watching Nott and Zabini, your eyes were glued to Malfoy.” 

No. Malfoy’s just … paler than the others. His paleness draws Harry’s eye. “It’s not like that. I don’t think he’s up to something anymore.” 

Ginny shot him a funny look. 

Harry was determined not to stare at Malfoy, so he leaned back and set his scuffed converse on the bench in front of them. 

“So, back to this ghost of yours …" 

Harry was relieved she dropped the topic of Draco Malfoy. “Yeah.” 

“The ghost couldn’t be the writer, you got that first poem—your valentine—in second year. Your ghost is too young. She wasn’t here yet.” 

He looked at her then, in the dying light, as a soft smile grew on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far ❤️ Feedback is very welcome


	2. Chapter 2

Harry sat next to Hermione in Potions, as he usually did. 

Slughorn wrote a word on the blackboard with his wand. _Bleutitius Potion_. It meant nothing to Harry, naturally. 

“Today, we will be starting a brew of Bleutitius Potion, and don’t think I haven’t noticed you all partner with the same people each time. Let’s mix things up,” Slughorn chuckled at his own attempt at a Potions pun. “Let’s see. Ms Parkinson, why don’t you switch with our Harry here. And Mr MacMillan, you with—" 

Harry stopped listening to Slughorn and eyed Parkinson warily, as she stood and shot him a glare. If he’s switching with her, then— 

He exchanged a look with Hermione, like they were telepathically pitying each other, and, wishing each other luck. He sighed. Then, he gathered up his things to bring them over to Malfoy’s table. As he passed Parkinson, she narrowed her eyes at him—which, seemed quite uncalled for, on account of her being the one who wanted to give him away to Voldemort and not the other way around. 

He slumped down in the free seat beside Malfoy, who, was decidedly not looking at him, and staring down at his textbook. Harry glanced at him, but all he could see was Malfoy’s shiny hair fanning over the desk, obscuring his face. It was so long … 

Harry clenched his jaw, and looked down at his own textbook and parchment paper instead. 

A translucent white figure flickered into existence in front of him, causing him to jump, which was an embarrassing thing to do right next to Malfoy. It was just a ghost. Just a girl—still in her Hogwarts robes. She smiled at Harry, with a knowing look on her face, and pointed, pointed to a spot on his desk. Startled, he saw a folded-up piece of parchment in front of him, where a moment before nothing had been there. 

_It was her._ She was the one bringing him notes.

~~

Draco vaguely registered that Potter had shifted quickly in his seat, that his stool had scraped against the floor. Draco looked up, and jumped as well. What was she—_Here??_

The girl was staring at Potter, with that sodding knowing smile. What in blazes was she up to? 

Then he saw her point, and a pit dropped in his gut. 

_Oh no_. 

Oh, no, no no— 

This was _not_ happening— 

Potter was picking up the note. 

The note that Draco suspected was his stupid poem. 

He thought she was keeping them for herself—not, sodding, _delivering_ them to Harry bloody Potter— 

He was going to have to do something. 

Something, something—but, what? 

If he didn’t—that ghost was going to give him away. 

Potter was unfolding the note. 

Draco snatched it out of Potter’s hands. 

“Hey!” 

“What’s this, Potter, passing notes in class?” Draco did his best to sneer. He looked down at the note—confirming what it was. That sodding awful sonnet. How did the ghost—Potter tried to grab it back, Draco dodged him. 

“Malfoy,” Potter practically growled. His eyes flashed with warning, boring into Draco’s. He felt a skewed sense of accomplishment, at having gotten Potter’s full attention for once this year. 

“A _love note_ eh, Potter? Who from—your precious Weaslette?” 

Potter’s eyes narrowed, and he tried to take another swipe to grab at it. “Give it back.” 

“You want your note, do you?” Draco asked, ridiculously exhilarated at the very thought. 

“_Yes_.” Potter’s eyes flashed. 

_Yes_. Potter wanted it. 

Potter wanted Draco’s stupid poem. It gave him a little thrill—and Draco almost considered giving it back to him, so that he could see his face as he read Draco’s silly, idiotic, yet undeniably truthful, thoughts. 

But—would Potter laugh? The thought struck him, twisting painfully in his chest. 

Is that why he wanted the note? To have a laugh with his friends? 

“No, I think I’ll keep it,” Draco said, tucking it into the inner pocket of his robe. 

Potter grabbed at him, pulling forcefully on his collar, trying to get to the note. 

“Let go of me!” 

“Mr Potter! Mr Malfoy! I see that your petty childhood antics continue,” Slughorn said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. “Do I need to take points from both your houses? Oh! We have a visitor.” 

Draco had forgotten the ghost. She’d nearly faded now, but she was staring back at Draco with a look that could only be described as disappointment. He met her gaze, unable to explain himself. Willing her to understand, understand that Harry Potter _cannot_ know. 

He didn’t want Potter to laugh in his face. 

He didn’t want Potter to punch him. 

Was that really so difficult to understand? 

He wanted to privately indulge his own fantasy. That was all. Potter need never know. Salazar—had Potter already received all of his earlier poems? 

Draco bit back a groan, pleading with his eyes for the ghost to let it go. 

She faded away, shaking her head at him. 

Draco cleared his throat. “Friend of yours?” And hazarded a glance at Potter, who, deservedly perhaps, was glaring back at him—huffing and puffing out his stupid, perfect mouth. 

“No,” Potter snapped. “Never seen her before.” 

Well, that was a relief, at least. That meant she’d had some discretion, thus far. Hadn’t yet announced ‘From Draco’ in her windy voice to a group of laughing Gryffindors. 

“Are you two quite fine to continue? Or do we need to find you new partners?” asked Slughorn. 

“We’re fine,” Potter murmured. 

Slughorn nodded, and moved on. 

“You’re an arsehole, Malfoy,” Potter muttered under his breath. 

Draco smiled. “Do you want to pick up the ingredients, or shall I?” 

Potter glared at him, and Draco caught a muscle twitching in the man’s jaw. 

“Fine, I will,” Draco said, getting up.

~~

Potter just couldn’t let it go, he’d nagged Draco all through Potions, and now was marching up to Draco at dinner, with his little side-kick Granger at his heels.

“I want my note back, Malfoy,” Potter said through clenched teeth. 

Draco smirked. “Haven’t you got enough love notes, Potter? I see you getting them in the post every day. Fans from all over the world.” He twirled his fork around in a dramatic flourish. 

“These are different.” 

Different? It sent a rush through Draco. Potter might actually like them, then, for some incomprehensible reason. He blinked at Potter for a beat, before remembering himself and quickly sneering. “Different, how?” 

Granger, at Potter’s side, looked decidedly uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to another. 

“Not that it’s any of your business—but they’re not like the other notes I get.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“These ones … they're … special.” Potter’s face looked as if he suspected he shouldn’t have said that. 

_Special_. He leaned forward. “How so?” Merlin, he was showing too much interest, he just couldn’t help himself. 

“They’re just … I don’t know why I’m telling _you_, but—they're personal. Nice. Heart-felt …" 

Draco didn’t know what to say to that. 

“So will you return it?” 

Draco shrugged. “I might’ve tossed it; I’ll have a look.” 

Potter sighed. “_Thanks_.” Then he spun around and marched back to his own table. Granger cast an odd look at Draco, before trailing after her friend.

~~

**I don’t understand. **

**Why is hiding the best parts of himself? **

**Why is Draco pretending to be indifferent to the person he loves? **

**What a waste of time, that seems—pretending not to feel. **

**I think I loved someone once. I think I told her. **

**She knew— **

**And I think we loved each other. **

**Mei. **

**Her name is Mei.**

~~

Draco went back to his dorm room after dinner, and pulled the folded parchment out of his pocket, sinking down onto his bed. He read the poem over, and couldn’t help wincing. The pacing was all off—the flow. It was truly bad.

He could write Potter a new note. Potter would never know the difference. Same quill. Same hand-writing. Same parchment paper. 

A better poem? 

Or, maybe he’d be better off writing that Potter needs to forget it. Forget about his mystery admirer, because the person on the other end is never the one you’re hoping for. Potter likely hoped a cute girl was sending him notes, and not his bitter—very _male_—arch-rival, or whatever Draco was to Potter these days. 

Draco should tell him to be happy with his Weaslette. Have the happy ending, have the white-picket fence and the crup and 3 children. Forget about the silly scribbles of a madman hoping for a lost cause. 

The ghost appeared, cross-legged on the end of his bed. 

“Merlin! You keep appearing suddenly.” His heart had picked up speed. 

She frowned back at him, stern in her ghostiness. 

Draco sighed. “Alright. I’ll explain. Okay?” 

The ghost nodded, and blinked back at him patiently. 

He ran a hand through his hair. “Harry Potter hates me.” 

Her frown deepened. 

“We don’t get along—we've never gotten along. From the very beginning, I wanted to be his friend, and he rejected me. You hear that? He rejected me.” 

The ghost seemed to sigh. 

“I might … harbour a fantasy for him. But that’s all it can ever be … We’ve only ever argued, we’ve only ever _hurt_ each other.” 

Her face fell. She looked … sad. 

“Telling him how I really feel, as foolish as my feelings are, would only make him laugh. Or hit me. _Honestly_. He can’t know. It would only hurt me in the end. Do you understand?” 

The ghost blinked back at Draco for a time, then, she flickered out. 

Draco slumped down on the bed, onto his back, and threw an arm over his eyes. Everything he’d said had been _true_, but it’d been terribly depressing to say it out loud.

~~

The ghost flickered into existence in the Great Hall, staring Draco down—a serious, yet determined look on her wispy white face, as she floated towards the Slytherin table.

“Ellie?” came a cry from the Hufflepuff table. 

The ghost faltered, turning her face to the side. 

“Ellie!” they choked out. 

Draco’s eyes found the source of the voice—a wide-eyed, curly black-haired Hufflepuff was clumsily making her way over to the ghost, stumbling and using people’s shoulders for support as she made her way over. 

A hush came over the Great Hall, with everyone turning to see what was going on. 

“Ellie! Oh God,” the girl said through tears, “you’re a ghost!” 

The ghost—Ellie—turned towards the girl, bringing her hands up as if she intended to cradle the girl’s face. 

“No—you’re trapped here—you didn’t—Oh God, you didn’t—_move on_.” 

“_Darling_” uttered the ghost, with her hands still poised in the air, wanting so much to cradle that girl’s face. 

“Ellie—” The girl was trying to put her hands on the ghost too, shivering with her attempts. 

“_Love._” 

“You should have moved on!” The Hufflepuff said, with tears streaming down her reddened face. 

“I. Will.” 

The girl made a choking sound, her eyebrows raising. “C—Can you?” 

“I. Think. So.” 

“I … God I hope so. I hope you can.” She searched the ghosts face, pawing at not-really-there shoulders. 

“Wanted. To see you.” The ghost smiled with love in her eyes. Draco felt tears forming in his own eyes, _Salazar_— 

“I love you.” 

“I love you.” 

The ghost turned to Draco, looked him right in the eye. “Life is short, Draco.” She sounded much less windy, almost … alive. Then she turned back to the one she loved, wrapping her ghostly arms around her, holding her—in a sense—as the Great Hall watched on in stunned silence. 

Ellie’s body shimmered like starlight, golden and sparkling. Then, crackled out of existence. 

The girl’s friends came to comfort her, hug her, whisper comforting words, as Draco looked on—baffled. With a terrible, terrible ache in his chest, and wetness in his eyes. 

“Merlin,” he whispered. 

Well. 

This was going to go against all of his instincts for self-preservation. 

He stood up. 

Climbed over the bench. 

And walked over to the Gryffindor table. 

“Potter,” he said quietly, to the man’s back. 

He turned, and Draco saw that Potter looked about as affected by that display as he felt. Potter’s eyes were red-rimmed, his expression a bit baffled. Potter had to clear his throat before saying, “Yeah?” 

“I wrote those stupid poems.” Draco pulled out the folded-up parchment containing his awful sonnet, and tossed it at Potter. 

The man caught it, in shaky fingers. Looking from the note, then back up to Draco with a furrowed brow, he uttered, “What?” 

“I wrote them. I didn’t send them. The ghost,” he nodded to the space Ellie had just disappeared from, “she delivered them to you.” 

Potter turned his head to the spot the ghost had been, too. And looked back up at Draco with wide-eyes, uncertainty apparent on his face. “Why would you—?” 

“Because it’s how I feel,” Draco said with a miserable shrug. _Life is short, Draco_. 

Potter blinked at him. “Why should I believe you?” He asked like he really needed to know the answer. 

Merlin, he didn’t know. Draco worried his bottom lip with his teeth, and thought. 

“I know what the poems said.” 

“Recite a line then,” Potter said. 

Oh Salazar. In the moment, the only memory he could conjure up was _His arse is a work of art._ Come on, there had to be a different, less embarrassing one. Hadn’t they all been embarrassing, though? 

Potter’s mouth twisted into a scowl, and he started to turn around in his seat. 

Draco sighed. “Fine. One of them was: ‘Your arse is a work of art.’” He couldn’t block a blush from forming. 

Potter’s eyes widened, and his mouth went into a little ‘o’ shape. “You wrote that?” His cheeks seemed to darken, too. 

Draco resisted the instinct to roll his eyes, to downplay it or make a joke about it to save face, to pretend it’d all been for a laugh, acting in all the ways he normally would. Cowardly ways. _Life is short, Draco_. Wincing, he said, “I did.” 

“You … fancy me?” 

“I … do.” Draco’s heart couldn’t pound any harder. 

Potter just blinked back at him, and they stared at each other. At a standstill. Draco didn’t know how to proceed. Potter’s fellow Gryffindors seemed to take that as an invitation to say something. 

Finnegan elbowed Potter, startling him, and causing him to look away from Draco for a second. “C’mon, I’d say out of all of us, my arse is the nicest. Eh, what do you say, Dean?” 

Thomas rolled his eyes at Finnegan, smiling. Potter didn’t even react, he looked lost. 

Draco caught Luna’s eye. He wasn’t really surprised to see her at the Gryffindor table—but he was surprised to see the Weaslette cuddling up to her, leaning her head on Luna’s shoulder. Luna smiled up at him softly, in her usual all-knowing way. The Weaslette, on the other hand, smirked at him, and, winked. 

Well. 

Draco blinked at the lot of them, unsure. 

The reaction he’d gotten was not one he’d expect. Not from Potter, not from any of them. 

It was decidedly better than all of them laughing at him, anyhow. 

Draco took it as a sign to go—turning on his heel and marching right on out of the Hall. He’d had enough confessions for one day.

~~

Draco glanced up from his Arithmancy textbook, and found Harry Potter marching straight at him from the library entrance. He sat up straighter in his chair, dropping his quill.

Here it is. Potter had finally come to his senses and was going to punch him. 

Potter stopped when he was at the back of the chair opposite Draco, and pulled out a finger to point right at Draco’s head. 

“You’re telling me, that _you_, Draco Malfoy, sent me that valentine in second year?” Potter asked loudly. 

Someone nearby shushed them. 

“Yes,” Draco answered, blinking rapidly, in a much more reasonable tone for the library. 

So, Potter wasn’t going to hit him, then? 

Potter looked surprised at that answer, even though he’d been the one barreling through with the accusation. Flustered, the man opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “You fancied me when we were twelve?!” 

“_Yes_.” 

“Shit. Fucking … Jesus. What?” Potter looked around with wide-eyes, rubbing the side of his head. “Unbelievable.” He turned back to face Draco, and shook his head. “Bloody unbelievable,” he repeated those words under his breath, backing away slowly, until spinning on his heel and charging out of the library altogether. 

Draco sighed, and looked back down at his textbook, rubbing at his forehead. 

He was looking forward to graduating, to say the least.

~~

Harry paced back and forth in his dorm room, as Hermione watched on, with her legs crossed sitting on Harry’s bed.

“Harry.” 

He stared, unblinking, at the floor, as he spun around and paced to the other end. 

“Harry!” 

He stopped in his tracks to stare at her. “What?” he asked, shifting his weight from toes to heels and back. That didn’t work—he went back to pacing. 

“Harry, do you even like men? What is this crisis of yours really for?” 

“Do I even like men?” Harry echoed, as he walked. “Well, sure. I like plenty of men.” 

Hermione sighed. “You know what I mean. Do you even fancy men? Are you gay? Or, bisexual? _Pansexual_? You’ve never talked about anyone besides Cho, or Ginny, so I’m just asking. You’re awfully not-calm for someone I thought yesterday was straight.” 

Harry flopped down onto his bed bedside her, face down, and groaned. When he was done, he turned his head to the side. “I used to fancy Oliver Wood a bit. Cedric, maybe, too.” He sighed. “And Malfoy has—” he buried his face in the bed spread and mumbled something. 

“Malfoy has _what_, Harry?” 

Harry groaned again, and turned his head, with a pained expression on his face. “Beautiful hair.” 

Hermione huffed a surprise laugh. “Okay … I suppose it’s rather … shiny?” 

“It’s perfect, Hermione. And he has those silver eyes, and those long pianist fingers,” Harry said miserably. 

“Okay … so you think he’s fit, then. Nothing wrong with that—” 

“Maybe I like him back! Hermione! I like that he challenges me instead of hero-worships me, he’s sees me for who I really am! _And_ writes poems, and I like that he’s bloody brilliant at everything—second only to _you_.” 

“Right …" 

“And he’s different after the war—I've seen him … I’ve seen him actually be nice to people. Just the other day he helped a first year get up onto his feet after he tripped …" 

“Alright. Maybe you like him, then. So, why the pacing? Why this whole—” She waved her hand around his face. “—display of dramatics?” 

“It’s _Draco Malfoy_.” 

“Yes. The man you used to stalk through the halls. The man you’d stare at and shout insults back and forth from _across the Great Hall_. The man whose ‘Potter Stinks’ badge you’ve kept in your trunk all these years for some reason.” Hermione sighed. “Oh my God, Harry. You’ve fancied him longer than you’ve realised, haven’t you?” she asked dryly. 

Harry groaned again. “Maybe.” 

“Well. Good news, Harry. He fancies _you_.” 

“Sure. Which just makes me feel weird.” 

“Weird, _how_?” 

“Like achy and nervous and _off_. I feel like I’ve gone mad.” 

Hermione laughed, again. Harry didn’t see what was so funny. “Okay, you definitely fancy him.” 

Harry flopped over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “What am I doing?” 

Hermione shrugged. “Why don’t you just ask him on a date or something, see where it leads?” 

“As if it were so simple.” 

“Harry. It _is_ simple. Merlin, you two are a pair. Love poems sent by a ghost …" She shook her head. “Just talk to each other! You’re eighteen!” 

Harry huffed, frowning up at the ceiling.

~~

Potter was driving Draco mad.

The confession was over, so why weren’t they pretending nothing happened yet? 

Instead, Potter kept watching him. Draco could feel his eyes on him more often than not. 

It was like being a zoo animal. For the first time in his life, he was sympathetic toward zoo animals. He was one of them now. He was a zebra longing for the Serengeti, and Potter was a child in a baseball cap munching on peanuts staring at him without blinking. It was _unnerving_.

~~

Draco felt, rather than saw, Potter’s eyes on him in Charms. He tried to ignore it, and tried to strike up a conversation with Blaise when the class was supposed to be working on the practical at the end of Chapter 9.

Blaise was just starting to explain to Draco something about a new distillation of fairy wine, that made its morning-after effects a little more tolerable, when Potter sauntered over to stand right in front of them. 

“I love them,” Potter interrupted. 

“You—” Draco started, with his heartrate picking up. “What?” 

“The poems—I love them. Will you write more?” 

“Ah—er, I … suppose I could.” _What?_

Potter smiled at him. _Smiled_ at Draco. Then he turned back to go to his desk. 

Blaise threw Draco a knowing smirk, before continuing on with what he’d been saying. Though Draco was finding it very difficult to pay attention. 

Draco’s pounding heart didn’t slow down, even when he got back to his dorm room. He opened up his journal to a blank page, and gave a little manic giggle, and covered his eyes. 

“What?!” he said aloud, to the empty room, as if it held the answers somehow. 

Harry Potter was _asking_ for more poems? What did that even _mean_? 

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he picked up a quill, and began to write. 

_<strike>Harry</strike>_

_<strike>Harry Potter</strike>_

Merlin. How did he normally go about writing them? 

He rubbed at his forehead. Right. He usually picked a word for the end of the first line, something that would rhyme with other appropriate words. 

Salazar. This was much harder, knowing Potter would read it, knowing it was from Draco. 

He’ll have to try to pretend he’d never send it, he supposed. And, if it was bad, he didn’t even have to send it, he realised. That took a little pressure off. 

Ah. Ellie would be pleased, he thought with a pang. 

He’d try to write something she’d be proud of him for.

~~

Harry glanced over his shoulder as Malfoy entered the Potions classroom, looking as suave and composed as ever—his long hair tucked behind one ear. Harry’s heartrate picked up speed, as he registered that Malfoy was coming his way.

Malfoy reached Harry’s desk, and pulled something out of his robe pocket, placing it in front of him. His long, elegant fingers held the note there for a beat, before he kept on walking. 

A thrill—a heat—blossomed in Harry’s chest. He picked up the note carefully and unfolded it. Hermione tried to peer over his shoulder. 

“Hey, this is private.” 

She frowned at him. “But I got to read the others.” 

Harry smiled. “Sure, but, that was when there was a mystery to solve. Now—now it’s personal.” 

Hermione sighed, and said, “Fine.” 

He tilted the note away so that she couldn’t read it. Hermione huffed, but turned back to her textbook. 

Harry’s smile grew, as he read:

_So now you know I like you. _

_And everything I wrote is true. _

_You’re really rather charming, I hope that’s not too alarming. _

_Yes, you’re the man I’m into._

Something was fluttering in his chest. He looked up, and caught Malfoy looking over his shoulder back at him. A pink flush decorated his cheeks. Harry bit his lip, and smiled. Malfoy’s—Malfoy’s eyes dropped to Harry’s mouth. Oh. Oh Merlin.

They tore their eyes away from each other and went back to reading the ingredient list in their textbooks. Harry couldn’t stop smiling, he tried—he just couldn’t quite manage it.

~~

“Malfoy! Er—Draco!”

Draco spun around, to find Potter racing over to him, nudging past fellow students as they walked the halls to their classes. 

“Yes?” 

Potter caught up to him, breathing fast, like he’d been rushing. A red flush covered his cheeks—whether from exertion or embarrassment, Draco could only guess. 

“Here,” Potter said, thrusting a folded piece of parchment roughly into Draco’s hand. 

“What’s this?” Draco said, blinking down at the paper. 

“Er. I wrote you something,” Potter said, not quite meeting Draco’s eyes. 

“You did?” Draco asked breathlessly, almost a whisper. 

Potter managed a shaky smile, and suddenly gripped Draco’s biceps. 

“What—” 

“Uh, can I kiss you?” Potter asked, leaning forward. 

_Oh Merlin._ “Yeah. Yes.” 

Potter closed the distance, pressing his closed lips firm against Draco’s. Puffs of Potter’s breath flitted over Draco’s cheek. Draco relaxed into it. Potter relaxed into it. They planted tentative little pecks against each other’s lips. 

Merlin help him. 

Potter pulled back, blinking slowly, still looking at Draco’s mouth. “Um. That was … nice.” 

Draco’s face felt hot. Very, very hot. “Yes. Nice.” 

Salazar, could they be more awkward? 

“Um. Maybe we can do that again sometime.” They made eye contact. Salazar he was so close, his eyes … so _green_. 

“Yeah,” Draco said, breathlessly. Again. “Anytime.” 

Potter grinned, biting his lip at the same time. “Brilliant. Um, yeah. Well … I’d better—” 

“Alright. See you later.” 

“See you later,” Potter echoed, shooting Draco a shy smile. 

Draco watched Potter leave, with feet frozen in place. 

Harry Potter had just kissed him. 

Harry Potter had apparently _wanted_ to kiss him. 

He knew what Harry Potter’s lips felt like. 

Harry Potter thought they might do that again sometime. 

Merlin … 

Then he remembered the note. He looked down at his hand—gripping the parchment tight—and willed himself to relax, taking a deep breath before opening it up. 

_A ghost brought us together. _

_Could it be any better? _

_I don’t want this to end. Will you be my boyfriend? _

_After all, it’d be my pleasure._

Draco choked out a half-laugh, half something else—something embarrassing. Merlin. 

Yes. 

He couldn’t quite believe it—yes, he’d be Harry Potter’s sodding boyfriend. 

He’d quite possibly never been happier.

~~

Harry had kissed Draco Malfoy.

He felt positively giddy with it. 

He found Hermione in the common room, sitting in an armchair by the fire. “I did it,” he said breathlessly, not able to keep a goofy grin off his face. “I gave him the poem you helped me with.” 

She put down the book she was holding, and smiled. “Great, Harry. What’d he say?” 

“Oh, um, I didn’t watch him read it.” Should he have stayed to watch him read it? 

Hermione nodded; she didn’t seem too bothered by him not staying. 

“And I kissed him.” 

Her eyebrows shot up, he had her full attention now. “You what?” 

Harry shrugged, sheepishly. “I felt like kissing him.” He shrugged again. “I asked first, he said it was alright.” 

A smile grew on Hermione’s mouth, as she shook her head, like she couldn’t quite believe he’d done it. “Well, how was it?” 

Harry grinned, and bit his lip. “Brilliant.”

~~

They were all packing up from their last class of the day, and Harry hurriedly threw his things in his bag so he could catch Malfoy before he left.

“Hey.” 

Malfoy nodded. “Potter.” He said Harry’s surname softer now. It wasn’t ‘Harry’ yet, but it was still an improvement. 

“Ah, would you like to go for a walk with me? Erm, outside, that is?” 

Malfoy slowly finished slinging his bag over his shoulder, and looked Harry straight in the eye. “Breaking up with me already?” 

“No!” Harry rushed to say. Jesus, he just asked about a walk. “Hang on, are we—? Er … you haven’t exactly told me ‘yes’, yet. But I just thought we could, like, talk ...” 

Malfoy blinked at him for a beat. “Well, alright.” 

Harry led them out of the castle, and they walked in silence, side by side, on the lawn towards the lake. Harry kept hitting his right palm against his left fist, in a nervous gesture. He didn’t know what to say. 

When they reached the lake, Malfoy spun to face Harry, and asked, “What did you have to say to me?” 

Harry froze. “Ah. Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” 

Harry shrugged defensively. “I thought it would be nice to walk with you.” 

Malfoy’s expression softened. “Oh.” 

Harry relaxed a fraction himself, studying Malfoy’s face. “Ah … I was wondering, though ..." 

“Yes?” 

“Can I touch your hair?” 

Whatever Malfoy was expecting Harry to say, that wasn’t it. He let out a breathy laugh, and shook his head. “_Sure_, Potter.” 

“Er, you know you can call me Harry now, right?” 

Malfoy smirked. “Let’s not move too fast, now.” 

Harry swiped a hand through his own hair. “You know you sent me a poem that started with ‘How do I love thee’, right?” 

Malfoy kept smirking. “Are you going to touch my hair or not, _Potter_?” 

It looked so soft, the silky strands that just hung there, past Malfoy’s shoulder. He licked his lips, and said, “Yeah.” And he reached a hand out, touching his fingertips to the ends, wrapping his fingers around them, pulling them a few inches up off of Malfoy’s collarbone and twisting them gently in his hand. Soft. 

Harry’s eyes shifted to Malfoy’s, who was looking back at him with his mouth slightly open. When he noticed Harry looking, Malfoy cleared his throat, and asked, “Can I touch yours?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” 

Malfoy looked at Harry’s disheveled head of hair with an awe it didn’t deserve. He brought his own hand up, tentatively, and carded it gently through the hair at Harry’s temple. It sent goosebumps up the back of Harry’s arms. 

“It’s softer than I thought,” Malfoy mumbled. 

Harry edged closer, and brought his other hand, the one that wasn’t still holding the ends of Malfoy’s hair, up to the top of Malfoy’s head, smoothing it over the silky strands, ending up with it cradling the back of his head. 

Malfoy kept brushing his fingers through Harry’s curls, and it felt heavenly against his scalp. 

Harry edged closer, looking at Malfoy’s relaxed, slightly parted lips. They could kiss again. They could have a second kiss. 

He could feel the puffs of Malfoy’s breath against his face. 

He edged even closer, and Malfoy’s breath hitched. Harry went for it, he leaned in, and brushed their lips together. 

This one was softer, slower. 

It felt like every hair was standing on end, it felt like Harry could float away. 

Malfoy pulled away eventually, with half-lidded eyes. He nodded to a space behind Harry’s back, and cleared his throat before saying, “Why don’t we—ah—go closer to that tree.” 

Harry nodded, looking at Malfoy’s mouth. “Alright.” 

Malfoy gently started pushing Harry backwards, guiding him, while planting kisses on Harry’s cheek, his chin, his jaw, along the way, murmuring things that Harry couldn’t quite catch, until Harry’s back hit a solid surface. The tree. 

Then, Malfoy cradled his face, and whispered, “_Harry,_” before leaning in to snog Harry absolutely senseless.

~~

Draco knocked on the entrance to Hufflepuff. A little one opened the door. “Yes?”

“Ah. Hello. Is Mei in?” 

The little boy looked behind himself into the golden, cozy common room. “Er, Mei?” 

After a brief moment, Mei peered around the boy. She seemed so much smaller up close. 

“Hello … Mei. Ah, can I speak with you?” 

She nodded, and stepped out. “We can talk in the kitchen.” 

Draco had never been in there before, he looked around in awe at the various cooking utensils, the pots and pans floating in the air. 

They settled in at the wide, long wooden table while a house-elf brought them two mugs of tea. Draco nodded his thanks. 

“I wondered if I could speak with you. About Ellie.” 

Oddly enough, Mei didn’t seem surprised. She nodded. “Ellie visited you?” 

“Yes. I’m not certain as to _why_ … But, she, well … she delivered some notes I had—” 

Mei nodded again. “For Harry Potter.” 

“Er, yes. How did you know?” 

Mei smiled. “Harry’s already come to talk to me, to tell me thank you.” 

“_Oh._” Harry hadn’t mentioned it—he'd have to have a word. Later. 

Mei took a sip of tea, looking wistful. 

“If it weren’t for her …" he began. He cleared his throat. Merlin, he might get emotional. “I wouldn’t have Harry. Suffice to say … I owe her. A great deal.” 

Mei nodded; her eyes unfocussed as she smiled softly. “She liked helping. Especially fellow LGBTQ members.” 

“Ah. Is there anything I can do? Something to repay her, something I can do for you, perhaps?” 

Mei sniffed and smiled, watery then. “I think all we can do is live a little bit more like her, you know? Ellie always went after what she wanted—no matter how improbable, no matter how likely she was to fail, or, or get rejected. She tried—she’d try anyway.” Mei ran a hand over the wood of the table. She looked down and watch her own hand move, as if she were seeing it from somewhere far away. “You can try that too. For Ellie.” 

He looked at her, a bit awed. “Yes. Alright. For Ellie.” 

****

~Epilogue~

Charms was about to start—Draco caught Harry’s eye as he entered through the doorway.

Nearly late, really cutting it close. Draco shook his head in disapproval. 

Harry grinned in return, beelining towards the empty seat beside Draco. 

“Here,” Harry said under his breath, so that Flitwick—who’d just started the lesson—wouldn’t notice. He pulled a folded-up note from his bag and placed it in front of Draco. 

Draco slid a similar paper across the desk towards Harry. 

Harry shot him that lopsided grin, the one that made it difficult to breathe. 

They unfolded their notes at the same time. 

Draco’s, from Harry, read:

_Your eyes are like soft stone. _

_Bewitching is your cologne. _

_You’re really quite cute, honestly: you’re a beaut. _

_With you, I feel like I’m home._

Draco huffed a soft laugh, just under his breath.

Harry’s, from Draco, read:

_Sweetheart, your lips are like honey. _

_If you were a weather, you’d be sunny. _

_I want a kiss, it’d bring me bliss. _

_You’re worth more to me than any money._

They turned to each other, Harry smiled at Draco with a softness, a sweetness that just made Draco desperate to snog him.

But it’d have to wait until after class. 

Approximately 59 minutes left to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading ! ❤️ Feedback, concrit, or just straight-up crit if you want, is welcome 😊
> 
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